It Is Always About Sherlock
by Aliada
Summary: At first, she is torn between amusement and a bit of irritation. Then she is impatient. And after that, she likes him. And this is by far the greatest self-made trap she'd ever gotten herself into.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N.**__Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended._

_It is a two-chapter story, which focuses on the development of Sherlock/Mary relationship. This chapter represents the beginning of their journey, and the next one will mark its final destination._

_It is always about Sherlock_. Indeed, it is.

At first, she is torn between amusement and a bit of irritation. Then she is impatient. And after that, she likes him. And this is by far the greatest self-made trap she'd ever gotten herself into. She is sure Sherlock would agree. If he knew her reasons, that is. If he knew _her_.

That would make for a nice scene, Mary thinks. And she'd always been fond of scenes. She imagines, Sherlock is the same way, if his dramatic "not-dead" appearance is anything to go by.

She is remotely sympathetic of John, but it fades in comparison to another feeling. Something exciting. Something new. Somehow, she knows: they are up for the game, and she's played enough in her lifetime to recognize that this one is going to be different. Probably disastrous as well. But she can not resist the temptation. She never can. For someone whose job consisted of avoiding trouble at all costs this might seem a bit excessive, if not downright "asking for it". But Mary never asked, not really. She just took what she wanted and never looked back. Now she wanted John. And, surprisingly, Sherlock. The last bit is definitely _not good_, as John is fond of saying but the increased beating of her heart tells her that she won't listen to the voice of reason. Not this time. Anyway, Sherlock's voice is too loud for others to have any meaning whatsoever.

* * *

'So, what do you think, Sherlock?'

'Definitely the book.'

John sends him a confused glance and Mary smiles.

'A bit kindergarden-ish, don't you think?'

'Not at all. People tend to place value on some things, and then these things…'

'Become their life.'

'Well, I meant become their idee-fix, but your version is acceptable.'

Mary doesn't want to admit it, but she is pleased. To be praised by Sherlock Holmes. She could see why John was crazy about it. She shakes her head, though.

'Not just "acceptable", is it, Sherlock?'

His expression is just a bit indignant and she finds herself genuinely enjoying it.

'You never settle for anything than-'

'Yes.'

Evidently, Sherlock doesn't appreciate interruptions but it makes it even more fun.

Mary glances at John. His eyes are amused, with a bit of subdued irritation. She can handle both, she thinks. Can Sherlock?

'Book, jealousy, murder, then?

'You left out the most important part, Mary.'

She likes how he says her name. Like there is nothing unnatural about them sitting here and discussing - solving - cases. Like she belongs. It's an exquisite feeling. She drinks it in and lets it cover her in the bliss of denial. For a flicker of a second, she is almost satisfied.

She'd always been trying things on. So many identities. So many masks. She liked to grow into them and see where it led her. Some fitted her well. Some were ridiculously different. Some taught her something. Others were an enormous waste of time.

The mask of Mary Morstan, though... so similar yet different at the same time. Too delicious to pass on.

Playing Mary Morstan. _Being_ Mary. At some point, she realized that she didn't have to pretend: Mary fit her so naturally. It fact, she fit her like nothing had ever before.

Rosamund could've been the furthest thing from Mary possible, and yet, she felt a kinship here. A common ground, and a common battlefield.

Was she Mary all the time?

She was Mary when she smiled at Sherlock and indulged into a bit of teasing. She was Mary when she acted as if she liked their neighbors. She was Mary when she hugged John and finally let go.

Falling in love with him, however… it was Rosamund all over and Mary could never find it in herself to be sorry about that.

'Mayhem?'

Sherlock snorts at her, and she lifts her eyebrows at John.

John bites his lips in a failed attempt not to burst into laughter. Mary is compelled to follow his example.

"Too many crime novels, Mary?'

Suddenly, she feels like playing. A little game can't hurt, can it?

'Deduce it?'

Sherlock looks a bit surprised at the invitation. Yes, she'd definitely cautious surprise, with a bit of hunger. She can recognize the signs only too well.

'You're a reader. You enjoy novels that make you think. A strong urge to be intellectually stimulated. But you do not like overly stiff and self-righteous things, so definitely not a snob. Picky in your own way. You know what you like, but you're also capable of thoroughly analyzing texts you feel indifferent about."

Something of a sparkle flutters in Mary's chest. She struggles to let air out.

_Captivating_ is by far a serious understatement. It's genius.

'So yes, you do like an occasional crime novel. You don't read for the sake of it, though, You have to be really into it, you have to _enjoy_ it. Otherwise, you just get bored and throw it away.'

'Excellent, Sherlock. What else?'

Now, she is hungry as well. She wants to know more, to see where he'd go and where he'd stop. _If _he'd stop. The thrill, the danger of it is overwhelming. She is half-tempted to give him some clues on purpose, to see if he'd figure it out.

But then she smiles and takes what is coming. There seems to be enough of it. For now.

'Then there is your writing style. You text like everyone else, short and perfectly simple when needed. No redundant marks. You're not particularly fond of commas, though. Not your style. Dashes held much more appeal, and sometimes you can not resist. You like your texts to be dynamic, fast, and commas slow you down. You're always spot-on. I'd say, facts with a touch of drama. John's style is somewhere between realism and romantism, yours… yours is far more modern. You don't describe things because they are there, you only describe them because they serve a purpose. So no, crime novel doesn't quite cover it. It has to be something psychological as well. Something with an edge to it. Something more than an unsolved murder with ten suspects.'

Mary hears John snort in background.

'Are you still sulking about that one? I thought we… found the common ground.'

Sherlock shifts his attention to the new challenge an Mary uses this time to catch her breath.

She shouldn't be affected by this. And yet, he is so close that it makes her heart beat stronger, and faster. If John took her pulse now…

Well, actually that could be easily arranged.

Mary tells herself to shut up and gets busy with her phone. Responding to messages is delightfully calming.

_Free tomorrow? Maybe we could…_

Shoot something? That would be nice. But she doubts that Janine would appreciate the humor.

She is definitely not your typical quiet-housewife type but Mary doesn't think she can handle the real pressure.

The pressure of a gun.

Yeah, responding to messages is a bad idea as well. Mary puts the phone away and looks at Sherlock. No - Sherlock and John.

Despite the unbearable itch in her mind, she doesn't want to interrupt. Doesn't want to see John's _half-amused-but-more-annoyed_ look. He always gets those when Sherlock pays no mind to him. Which is often enough.

_"Does it bother you?"_

_"What?"_

_"Him? Him not talking for hours. Pretending like you're not there. But basically just him."_

_"No. Why would it?"_

_"John."_

_"I guess I got used to it. And Sherlock doesn't pretend not to listen. He simply doesn't listen. Or he listens but chooses not to say anything. More often the later."_

_"Of course."_

Yes, pretending was never for Sherlock. It is her eparchy,

She doesn't have the heart to tell John that Sherlock could - and can - pretend extremely well. It's evident that John doesn't want to acknowledge it. He is pained by it. He wants to escape.

Sometimes, Mary feels like helping him. Other times, she feels like there is no purpose in any escape. Not as long as Sherlock is walking the same earth.

In all honesty, though, John's irritated looks are more cute than anything else. Sherlock seems to agree. In fact, he's annoying John right now and getting these. Mary thinks it's good not to be the only one for a change.

She can't help a subtle spark of jealously, though. And it is so trivial she could puke.

Thankfully, their relationship is nothing but.

Jealousy isn't even the right word for it, if she's being frank.

She is not even sure there is any right word at all. If there is, she is still searching.

And _finding_ is the furthest thing from her mind. Where would be fun in that?


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ _This chapter describes Mary's death from her POV (my first time doing something like that!). There are some solid alterations from canon (mostly in omitting what was said and adding what wasn't said), but the primary focus is on her emotions/feelings, memories, which can't really be checked for "correctness". So, basically, this is my interpretation of the scene, done with a little more freedom than the term "interpretation" usually implies :D_

_I'm not sure if I will be continuing this story, but I will leave that as an option for now._

_Thank you so much to those who liked/followed this story! It was a great incentive for me to continue writing!_

It was the end, and in the end things always seem more significant.

Otherwise, how would she explain the fact that she is currently bleeding on the floor after a heroic, but misguided attempt at saving Sherlock's life. Well, "heroic" could have been an exaggeration if it wasn't for the look in Sherlock's eyes.

A look that said, "I don't believe it." One had to try very hard to surprise Sherlock Holmes, and she managed to do just that. She managed to…

…kill herself.

The thought should be sobering, but it brings her no lucidity. Now is probably time for the "why" question, but she realizes that she does not have an answer. It is lost somewhere between her vague, fuzzy memories and John's panicked looks.

She does not want to look at John. She does not want to admit her failing.

And yet, she needs him. She needs him as she'd never needed him before.

To look at her with affection. To promise that she would be remembered, and forgiven.

For a moment, she is disgusted with herself.

Saving Sherlock's life was an easy bit. Owning up to that… not so much.

It hurts. It hurts too much to think or feel, and yet the strength of her own emotions baffles her.

She does not see her life flashing before her eyes. She'd seen enough of that before.

Instead, she only sees him. Struggling. Overcome with grief but still struggling to accept and understand what can be neither accepted nor understood.

She wonders if Sherlock can deduce it. But most of all, she wonders if he can convince John of his deductions. Usually, that would present no problem, but there is nothing usual about their situation.

John does not want her saved, not really.

Mary probably, but not Rosamund.

She says what he would like to hear, in a clearly failing attempt to remove the pain from his eyes. The mention of Rosamund is not going to help with that, so she omits her with no remorse.

Surprisingly, she still finds herself liking Sherlock. He is generous enough to respond in kind. Maybe he is doing it for John's sake, or maybe it is simply good manners to reply politely to those who are dying. But no, Sherlock has always been excessively polite to her.  
It was not why she liked him, though. There were too many reasons for her comfort, but this one was not among them. He could have been his finest "keep-your-distance" self, and that would not have changed the outcome.

She used to worry about that. By all rules, written and unwritten, she should have been angry with him. He'd hurt John. He'd made her anxious. Even worse, he had disturbed the blissful unawareness of their relationship. And yet, she could find no anger in herself.

This time it is her who made John unhappy, and the punishment for that is, apparently, yet another, stronger dose of dismissal. He is not even looking at her. She knows that he simply can't bear it. But it hurts. It still hurts.

John's slick fingers are grasping helplessly at her shirt. As if that could change anything. As if she could pay with her life for his forgiveness. She could, but what was the point?

John will forgive her, but not himself.

He will blame her as well, quite rightfully so, but he will also be ashamed of that feeling.

Because that wasn't how John Watson behaved. But he wasn't the John Watson anymore. No. She's turned him into something else, and the pain of it almost matches the physical torment in her body.

In her last moments, she wants to see his eyes. But she also knows that it is too much to ask.

Still, he looks at her, clearly pained by it. It pains her as well, and neither of these feelings is new. She was reminded of it by every haunted expression in his eyes, every stifled emotion that could never find an outlet, every broken connection they used to share.

In the last few weeks, there were no connections left. No John and Mary. They were dutifully maintaining superficial talks, but their eyes were telling a far more tragic story.

"_I'm going to go…" John looks uncomfortable, almost strained. _

"_Out?" Mary asks, keeping her tone neutral. _

"_Yes, out… just to clear my head."_

_He nods at her, gives up the pretense of smiling and checks his phone, suddenly irritated. _

'_Is it him? Are you going to him' is all she wants to ask, but she can't. Not anymore. Now, these kinds of questions are off-limit. _

_Still, she can tease. It is safe enough. It is what Mary Watson would have done. _

"_Of course, go solve a crime, and come back in a better mood. Your unemployed wife is moody enough for both of us."_

_The muscles in her face don't quite obey but she still forces a smile. _

_John lifts his eyebrows in response. _

"_Who told you… Oh, never mind. Can I invite Sherlock over for dinner? Would that improve your mood?"_

_Round two. 'Squabble over Sherlock' game. Far more interesting than random teasing. _

"_I'm not sure, but it will certainly improve yours."_

_Now, John is smiling, in that dangerous 'don't go there' manner she came to know only too well. _

"_And Sherlock's," she adds, just to see how he will react. _

_Predictably, John scoffs and shakes his head. _

"_Yes, Sherlock adores social gatherings. I'm quite surprised I wasn't aware of that." _

_For a moment, her fake mirth actually gains some genuine warmth. _

"_Not with anyone, no."_

_John gives her a long, reserved look and nods his head, as if in defeat. _

_Mary considers what she's going to say next, but then she notices their reflection in the mirror. It's not distorted or anything like that. On the contrary, it's frightening in its precision. Tense, subtly aggressive, alienated. John's posture reminds her of a man under questioning, and hers is no better. They don't look each other in the eyes, and if they do, it's done solely to throw a challenge or admit defeat. _

_The emptiness, coldness of their expressions makes feel sick. She wants to turn away, but forces herself to look. John does not seem to notice. Or maybe he had been noticing it all along._

_Mary gives him a short nod and watches him leave the room. The sound of the closing door is quiet, as if intentionally subdued, and she can't help but think about that cautious expression on his face. _

_They had never been perfect together, but now… now there wasn't "them" anymore. _

The memory hurts, but Mary cannot deny its worth. It was the first time when she finally realized…

"I made you miserable, I…"

John shakes his head and she realizes that he won't believe her. Not now. Probably not ever.

She can't get enough air in her lungs to say the words, but she only has to manage a few sounds. And John will hear her. She knows he will.

"Hap-py. I want you-u to…"

She wants to squeeze his fingers, for the last time, but there is not enough strength in her hands. So she just turns her head slightly, evoking a chocked sound from John. No, John shouldn't sound like that.

"B-both of-you."

It's the last thing she's capable of, she knows that only too clearly. The last words of Mary Watson. She catches Sherlock's stricken eyes and lets her head fall. John's fingers move convulsively over her body, and the warmth, realness of that is unexpectedly soothing.

There are no more voices, apart from her own, which will also go silent soon enough.

She does not think that the time exists for her from now on.

_Rosamund. Mary_. She was everything she wanted and did not want to be. She could go back any time, and yet, she never did. It was always "forward". Always, relentlessly forward.

Until John. Until Sherlock. Until the bullet in her stomach.

But now, she can be Rosamund again.

And Rosamund is very tired.

And Rosamund is… alive no longer.


End file.
